• Disclaimer. Batman © DC Comics.
• Warning. Spoilers from Detective Comics 2016 (#940 - #963) and a bit of Teen Titans 2016 (#8 - #11)
• Notes. First time writing for the batfam fandom and I do it in a foreign language, please have a little patience with me. I do this funny thing where I mix all versions of Tim, so you're gonna find tons of references to Pre-52, N52 and Rebirth. Also this was supposed to be a sequel and a Tim & Damian fic only, but I got slightly carried away and now what was supposed to be the main story will be the prequel to this (hopefully).
• &. The title comes from the song Death Defying Acts, by Angus & Julia Stone.
Having your body suspended in space and time was as boring and unnerving as it sounds, but being suddenly placed back right were you belong came with a pack of consequences Tim didn't consider during his detention period. For starters, his broken ribs didn't heal properly and the dull pain on his side could only be matched by the constant heat spreading like fire through his leg. Either that crystal cage at the edge of the universe served to slow down any biological processes or Tim was just too busy trying to escape to mind the pain (guess which one sounded more plausible).
To put it simply, everything hurt. His body was like a rusty machine the universe had decided to hit with a stick and the moment it started working again, Tim's senses overloaded. The lights were blinding and not nearly warm enough, and even the soft notes in Cassandra's voice sounded like screeching to Tim's ears; the smell of burnt kevlar sent a wave of nausea that worsened his already erratic breathing. There were thousands, there was fire and there was nothing Tim could do about it. It was like time had sent him back right to the moment he (should have) died and the hopelessness stretched like a flash of lighting through his heart.
Later on, Tim would remember the feeling— the primal urge to call for his father, like a scared child. Did he get the words out in the end? Whose was the chest he was nestled against, the gentle hand brushing his hair away? Tim couldn't tell. Dick had never grown stubble, but that didn't feel like something Bruce would do.
In any case, cleaning up those blurry memories became a hobby; a time-killer to pass the days while his body readjusted itself, first to its own functions and then to these particular time and space.
There were many days ahead.
As it turned out, the consequences had consequences of their own. It wasn't just a matter of a few broken ribs; the spleen had been compromised too. Tim knew something bad was coming before Leslie Thompkins came in to give him the news, if the muffled screaming and the sound of something being thrown against the wall were any sort of indication. He guessed Jason was in the next room.
Tim didn't need to see— he'd been blindfolded since his eyes were still light-sensitive— to make out her expression. No one liked being the carrier of bad news (especially when they had to be delivered to Batman of all people), but for the moment he was okay with his condition. This way he didn't have to see Steph's sad eyes yet; this way he could delay whatever decision Bruce would have to make. Tim felt like laughing, really. It was one thing to walk away in search of a future and another one entirely to have the future come pick you up because you were done for.
A hand reached out. A firm hold, a grounding touch. "Alfred…"
The name came out strained, but it was the best he could manage. Tim felt a rush of affection for the old butler settle in his throat, bottling up the rest of the words inside. I missed you. I missed you so much, I still do— I was there after Damian, after Jason, I know— I'm sorry, you didn't deserve this, I'm so sorry…
"Master Tim" came the calm and collected response, shutting down the private self-deprecation fest. A part of Tim was amazed by how life just sort of seemed to blend around the cool façade of Alfred Pennyworth, but the larger part of him was just sad. The old man had gone through so much, and Tim just kept adding to the pile. "Is there anything I can do for you, sir? More crushed ice, more painkillers?"
"I don't like being doped up," there was no need for time to crawl any more slowly than it already did. "Thanks for sticking by me, Alf. You're a rock."
For a time, they were all shadows dancing around his withered body. But when you were in this line of work, you learned to recognize the handiwork of the man who always patches you up. Tim could be half-blind on his deathbed, and yet he'd know if Alfred's hand was at work. He knew it was. The splenectomy might have demanded an extra pair of hands— if not for Alfred's peace of mind, Tim gathered, then for Bruce's— but the butler was in every bit and piece of memory.
"Quite, young sir," warmth crept in between the words. "You should try to get some sleep. We don't want you to spend what little energy you've regained just yet."
"Always the iceman," Tim snorted, but dared not to swim against the tide. "Good news is this isn't contagious at least."
The darkness inside the Wayne Manor could be appalling if you were alone, so both Tim and Alfred learned from an early start to work together and shed some light where they could. Companionship settled between them like a cat content to have found a cozy spot. Yet it was the sweetest surprise, to feel Alfred press a kiss to his forehead and wish him goodnight.
Something shifted after Tim came back. The explanation made perfect sense in his head, but it wasn't something he'd share with anyone other than Stephanie. Strange as it may sound, the unspoken line that had always kept him at a distance suddenly wasn't there anymore. He didn't mean the Titans, of course. Tim knew them like the back of his hand and so did they in return— but the rest?
From Dick that wasn't unexpected; it'd have been unfair on Tim's part otherwise, but after everything that's happened between them? It was a tad unsettling to suddenly jump back to how they were before. Jason… Tim was still shaking because of Jason. The words had been far less intimate than his actions, but they were enough to make Tim say them back. Cassandra didn't bother with words; she discarded them as if they were obstacles and simply rested her head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. Jean-Paul found them like that in the med bay: Cass gently asleep on top of him and Tim muffling his sobs against the pillow. Jean was kind enough to keep it to himself.
Tim was immensely grateful to have his eyes healed for when Beast Boy and Raven came to visit. Garf was so excited to see him that he jumped the distance from the door to Tim's bed, transforming into a cat in mid-air before landing next to his chief's leg. Tim laughed heartily as his friend purred noisily against his cheek, but he couldn't help giving the choice some thought: either Tim looked like shit still or Raven shot him a mental warning to keep Garf from turning into a big dog at the last minute. Her little knowing smile let Tim know that it was a bit of both actually.
"It's so good to see you, guys." The bed sank under the combined weight of Tim and Garf, now in his original form and with both arms around his long lost friend's neck. Raven sat next to them, silently rubbing BB's back and holding Tim's hand with the other one. She was about to speak when something overcame her and forced her to stop. Raven looked every bit as if she had received a blow to the head, so it really took Tim by surprise when she actually turned around. He followed her gaze.
Damian Wayne was at the door.
Tim smiled before even opening his eyes. A stream of moonlight slipped through the heavy curtains, but otherwise the only light in the room came from the screen of Tim's laptop. The night seemed to be the right shade of blue; it even brought Batman to his doorstep before the sun came out.
"Hey, B."
"Tim," Bruce took off the cowl as he walked in; his voice carried the smile that wasn't to be seen on his face. Right shade indeed. "How are you feeling?"
"Bored," Tim answered easily. "To the point I might start giving Bat-Cow speaking lessons if you don't let me in on your cases soon."
"If anyone could do that, it would certainly be you," Bruce stood next to the bed, but for some reason didn't take a seat. It made Tim's toes curl under the sheets.
"Glad you think that, 'cause I already started with the lessons," Tim kept the joke going to try and take his mind off whatever downward spiral it wanted to fall in. "Just thought I should ease your way into it; wouldn't want you to freak out or something."
The last bit startled a laugh out of Tim, and that seemed to do the trick. Bruce smiled at last, watching his son laugh at his own joke and finally sat down next to him. It didn't occur to Tim that maybe Bruce was nervous too; they hadn't really talked since Tim's return, after all.
A few weeks ago, Tim had asked Bruce to take him back to Wayne Manor. The Belfry was well-equipped, Tim knew that better than most, but it was also the place where everything started— or ended (it was hard to decide). There was also the apartment Tim shared with Steph, but it didn't come to mind until Bruce agreed to his request. In the end, he guessed that Wayne Manor had been his home longer than any other place; the fact that his old room was still there for him seemed like a sounded proof of that.
"Thanks for taking me back in," Tim said because he couldn't remember saying it before. "It won't be for long, I promise; just needed to rest a bit from the city. I was thinking of moving back to my place by the end of the week anyway, so—"
"You can stay as long as you want," Bruce cut him off, roughly. It set an awkward tension between them. His tone turned down a notch when he spoke next. "This is your home. It's good that you decided to stay."
Tim sensed there was more to it than that, but he didn't push it. Detective intuition told him that the reason Bruce was glad that he hadn't chosen another place to rest was the same reason why Steph only visited him when there was no one but Alfred at the Manor.
Bruce gripped Tim's shoulder the way he used to when he was a child. Some people patted their sons on the back or hugged them, but this has always been their thing. Bruce would use it to calm him down when Tim was being more emotional than mental; steady him after a particularly rough night of patrol and sometimes offer what little comfort he could before delivering bad news.
Yeah, this wasn't looking so good. "Penny for your thoughts?"
Bruce seemed to mull over something before speaking. "I know we haven't had the time to talk ever since you came back. No," he backtracked. "It's been longer than that. I'm not sure where to start."
Tim gave him an encouraging nod, face cautiously blank. His mouth felt dry.
"The night you faced the drone fleet," Bruce said in a gentle tone, as if afraid he'd wake up the memories if he spoke louder. "I went to check on Spoiler. She let me know then that before our mission, you received a notification; a letter from Ivy University."
Tim's heart rate spiked up so fast it was scary, each heartbeat more painful than the last. Bruce knew— Batman knew and Tim didn't have a say on how he got the news. His mind went blank and no hand on his shoulder would make a difference this time.
"I understand why you didn't tell me," it was only half a lie. Zatanna had voiced his darker thoughts so clearly, the words— would you have ever really been able to let him leave?— still hanged over his head like an accusing finger. But had it not been for the way things turned out in the end, would he have realized his feelings and made the right choice anyway? Bruce could only hope that if he wouldn't have then, he would do so now, for Tim's sake.
He didn't know what to make of Tim's face though. His third Robin, if a bit of a show-off, had a fulltime tendency to lower his self-esteem that needed to be checked quite often when he was a kid. The last thing Bruce wanted was to make Tim believe that he was angry with him.
"I do, Tim," it bore repeating. "You had bright plans for your future; it'd be a shame to see them go to waste. Of course, there are things we'll need to address first, since you're still legally declared dead. But once it becomes known to the public, maybe I could put in a word for you, so the Headmaster won't—"
"Are you firing me?"
Bruce was startled by the question; there was really no other word for it. He slowly straightened his posture, putting some distance between them. If Tim had tried to take a swing at him, Bruce wouldn't have been so taken aback. It was a stupid question— worse than stupid, it was revealing— and Tim knew that, but it'd just slipped out. There was no point in playing dumb. If he was no longer useful, he deserved a straight answer, not a sweet talk to soften the blow. His years of service should have at least earned him that much.
The hand on his shoulder moved down to his chest, grew heavier as Bruce leaned forward again, softly pressing down. "Do you really think I could replace you?"
The breath Tim didn't know he was holding rushed out of him, leaving room for an unexpected sob. The feeling washed over him like warm water; embraced him with such fullness it tucked all his childhood fears in to sleep. It was hard to accept that small part inside of him that ached for this kind of recognition, but Tim couldn't find it in him to shut away that need. Bruce was a father and for once, Tim allowed himself to feel that way about him.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed again, wiping his eyes quickly. "That wasn't fair, I just— with my spleen gone, it's— that is…"
"It's alright, boy." Bruce whispered, rubbing tiny lines with his thumb over his chest. He sounded sad, remorseful even and Tim hated every bit of it. There was so much he wanted to say, but he wanted to do so without crying and that was just too big of a task right now. Tim put his hand over Bruce's and held it tight, desperate to explain himself.
Bruce did nothing to break away and for several minutes, they stayed that way: touching, but not facing each other. Apparently, old habits really did die hard. "I wasn't leaving. Not for good," Tim started slowly. "I know we've got something good going on with the Belfry, but if there was something more I could do—something that would benefit Gotham more, I wanted to learn. And there's so much, Bruce, so much that I don't know…"
Bruce hummed and nodded once, precise. He waited for Tim to say something else and when he didn't, Bruce took the chance to come clean as well. "I don't care about your spleen. I'm sorry that you had to have it removed and I'm sorry it took me so long to find you, but it doesn't change anything. I know you'll have to be more careful now… but you already are that, so you don't really leave me much room to fret about."
Tim smiled, surprised by the joke. Maybe he was dying after all, but man, what a way to go. Bruce continued. "I didn't bring up your acceptance letter because I want you out of the team. But since you're back, I thought… I should make things right this time."
"Yeah well," Tim patted his hand, warm all over. The sky war turning softer by the minute, the sun around the corner now, and it felt just right. "We're getting there, B."
"Well, that wasn't stressing at all," Tim nearly jumped out of bed at the unexpected voice. Crap, he had completely forgotten— he was chatting with Steph before Bruce came in; probably dozed off a bit waiting for her to come back from the kitchen. Steph never tried to wake him up whenever he fell asleep, but she'd lay awake to watch over him (and take pictures, of course). If Steph did that before, there was no stopping her now that the nightmares had become a current thing. Never mind if she had to do it through skype.
Tim rubbed his face with one hand, before pulling the laptop on top of his legs with the other. "How much did you hear?"
"Um, how much is too much before you get mad at me?"
Everything then, Tim frowned with no real heat behind it and Steph flashed him an apologetic smile. At least she had the decency to try to look ashamed. Tim bit his lip to stall a smile of his own. "You heard enough to make me mad, but not enough to consider having a talk with B?"
Steph made a face at that. "I told you, it's complicated."
In her defence, she did tell him. The thing is she never really went into details and it made Tim anxious, not knowing how bad their fall out was. Without that, he didn't know how to fix it. Without that, he only had two people he loved not even on speaking terms.
"It wasn't all stressing though," the question mark was implicit and Steph put some real effort in making a show of rolling her eyes to conceal her smile.
"No, it wasn't," she agreed. Bruce's fatherly side was always a strange and lovely sight to behold. If you asked her, that side owed Tim quite a lot. "I thought you were gonna ask him about Damian."
At the mention of the name, Tim's eyes went straight to the book lying on his desk. He could have hidden it really, just to save himself the trouble of a quarrel with Damian or slipped it through his stuff while Robin was out on patrol. But he didn't and it was because deep down, a part of him was asking for a bit of trouble.
Tim took no joy in fighting Damian, but that was the essence of their relationship. It became a part of the routine and more importantly, it became a part of them. Tim could take it and so could Damian; it wasn't perfect or ideal (or to be honest, not what Bruce or Dick would like) but it worked and at the end of the day, that's all Gotham needed. That was their unspoken agreement.
Ironically, that was exactly the problem now. It's been weeks now since Tim came back and in all that time, Damian hadn't spoken a single word to him. Not a huge loss maybe, but weird and a bit discouraging really. Tim didn't know what to make of it. Was he getting the silent treatment because he didn't stay dead? Was the gremlin angry, disappointed with Tim's return? Was Tim's life still at risk— still trapped inside that cage and all this was just a cruel illusion to keep him calm, submissive? To make him doubt, drive him crazy—
"Tim, whatever you're doing, stop now."
Tim breathed in, and felt like he'd been drowning. His hands were damp with sweat. It hurt to think of Damian, for he was the only loosen up button in this renewed life. Dick was fast to make up excuses for him, but Bruce was a safe bet when you wanted the ugly truth. Tim should have asked him really, but couldn't he spare himself just this once? He wanted a moment alone with Bruce. There weren't many of those left anymore.
"I changed my mind," Tim lied. "Maybe it's better if I face this on my own."
"I can go with you, if you want." Steph was scared for him, and Tim really wished she wasn't. He'd fix that too when he moved back with her. Tim didn't need her to be there; Steph was always with him, no matter if there were galaxies in between.
"It's okay, Steph. But I love you for asking." That earned him a smile.
"I love you too," Steph answered immediately. Her voice still cracked a bit every time she said it. She cleared her throat to cover it. "You know, I still can't believe Batman called you 'chum'. That was so 1940."
"Steph—" Tim choked.
"I mean it, is that the sun or are you looking a little vintage now?"
"Stop it," but Tim was far too amused to do anything other than stop himself from howling on the floor at 5:37AM.
"Who says 'chum' these days? Not my grandma, that's for sure." Steph paused and Tim knew what was coming. "Tell you what? I'm bringing back 'chum'. If you thought the whole #imtellingbatman was trending..."
Tim cackled, bending over the laptop. He could perfectly picture Steph calling Bruce 'bat-chum' or something of the sort, just because she could. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she had once been afraid of the Batman—been afraid of anything at all. Tim took strength in her. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than for this illusion to be real.
"Spoiler alert: it's recorded. Our children will know about this."
Yes, Tim thought. They will.
It wasn't an ambush really, not if you didn't give much thought about it.
For the untrained eye, Tim was just sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying… not his third cup of coffee, I assure you. Rays of sunset hit the wooden surface and Tim's hands reached for them without a second thought. The pleasant warmth spread from his fingers to his elbows, melting the cold chunks of space still stuck under his skin. It was wonderful, to know that peace could be found so easily. It nearly made Tim regret his decision, when finally Damian walked in.
Damian wasn't one to have anything remotely close to an untrained eye. But then again, neither did Tim, so it was too late to pretend that his presence didn't catch him by surprise. With a black coat and Titus flanking his side, Damian was every bit the embodiment of his family name. Tim realized with that sinking feeling only lost time can give you that the boy had grown taller and his face had more of Bruce now than it ever had of Ra's. It was silly, pointless even to notice, but it made him a little sad anyway.
Something must have shown on his face, because it never took Damian this long to make a comment. Crap. "Hi, Damian."
"Drake" was the vacant response, the kind you'd get from an answering machine. Uncomfortable was a kind word to describe what it made Tim feel, but it was better than admitting that it had plain set his teeth on edge. Too long, the words surfaced from someplace dark and deep. I've been gone for too long.
"Alfred's out before you ask," Tim decided to cut to the chase, with the pressing urge to get back to his bedroom and sleep off the rest of the week. Ever since the drone fleet, bad ideas just seemed to rain on him. "I've got something of yours and just wanted to give it back."
Damian raised an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between sceptical and suspicious, and then his cool exterior shattered so fast it took a concerned whimper out of Titus. Tim wordlessly left the sketchbook on the table and slid it to the opposite side, as far away from him as the length of his arm would allow. Damian's face was turning a dangerous shade of murderous and Tim sighed so hard he might have pop a stitch or two. He'd have to check them later, maybe after sending Raven an urgent message to grab BB and throw him into another dimension; the farther away, the better his chances of survival.
"How did you acquire that sketchbook?" Damian asked subtly and sure enough, you could hear Talia's genes doing the talk here. Beast Boy was so dead Tim's brain automatically started playing The Rains of Castamere in his head.
"A mutual friend thought it'd be better kept here, at the Manor." That was bullshit, but Tim minded every word in the hopes that Damian would bite. At least this was familiar ground, much better than the stone-cold silence from the last few weeks. "I might or might have not been suggested that I should take a look at it."
Damian went very still. "Have you?"
"No." The answer was quick, and true. "I know the sketchbooks are important to you."
At a loss of what to say, Damian made a neutral sound of acknowledgement and went straight for the kettle sitting on the stove behind Tim. The coffee machine was still on, filling the air with the comforting smell of the beverage and right next to Damian's tea-bag chest, was an open jar full of coffee grounds.
The sight of it made something jump inside of him. He had completely forgotten about that jar; couldn't remember ever seeing it again after Tim's funeral, as a matter of fact. Had Pennyworth really kept it all that time? Or was it always there, in plain sight, and Damian just didn't realize? A tingling feeling spread to his fingers, causing the lid to slip from his grasp. Angry at his own clumsiness, Damian pressed his lips into a thin line and pretended he couldn't feel Tim's questioning glance at the unexpected— and unnecessary loud— sound of the chest closing.
Tim was pondering if it'd be good to leave it at that when Damian shrugged off his coat and decided to take the seat opposed to Tim's, then pushing the sketchbook a little closer to his side of the table. It was now between them, suddenly more real than anything else in the room. Damian had finally made a move and for once, Tim wasn't sure if he was reading him right.
"Really?" Screw it, Tim's never gotten this far before.
"Tt. If everything must be spelled out for you, Drake," Damian grumbled, stirring his tea with short, methodical movements. If he kept hitting the porcelain with the spoon like that, the cup would soon enough start confessing its crimes. "I weep for the future of detective work."
Now that was the longest stream of words he'd heard from Damian in a long time— long before he "died" actually. The boy was defensive, that was clear, but something about his demeanor reminded Tim of Bruce standing like a light pole next to his bed a couple of nights ago. A funny feeling settled in his belly before he opened the book.
There were his eyes, staring back at him from the first page. Tim was marvelled by the amount of details. So Dick wasn't exaggerating or doing his "Big Bro Thing" all those times Tim didn't even ask; Damian was seriously talented and any attempt to describe it fell short. Sadly enough, Tim couldn't really call it a surprise (why be a detective when you're friends with Beast Boy, the soul of discretion?), but what he wasn't prepared for was to turn the page— and the next, and the next— and keep finding himself there.
He expected one, maybe two drawings, but the whole sketchbook?
(The whole sketchbook was dedicated to him.)
Tim covered his mouth, feeling sheepish all of a sudden. Was this what Dick felt like, all the time? There was something powerful in knowing that the wolf at your door was there to guard you and not chew you up, like you always thought it would.
Damian, growing antsy by the second, risked a glance at the silent figure across the table and quickly turned his eyes away when he caught sight of Tim's thumb absently rubbing Conner's shape, feeling like he'd burst in on a private moment. Tim sensed the movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up to find Damian profoundly interested in the pattern of the kitchen curtains.
"You drew me better than I was," Tim commented before turning another page, a lukewarm smile on his face. Damian's head snapped back at that and glared, openly offended this time.
"May I remind you, Drake," he straightened in his seat, looking every bit like Tim had just told Michelangelo that he could have painted the Sistine Chapel better. "That I'm not prone to Romanticism. I only draw what I see."
Huh. Tim remembered reading once that the main goal of Realism was not beauty, but the truth and therefore, the knowledge of truth. Damian didn't draw idolized versions of the people around him; much like his father, he sought solid ground. Drawing Tim was a conscious choice, not some artistic whim or an emotionally driven response to his passing, which made this the nicest thing Damian's ever done for him.
"You're amazing," Tim said because it was true. He looked up again. "I mean that, Damian. These are pretty good; and by good I mean you could be Gotham's next legend for more than just a cape and a cowl." He closed the sketchbook. "I know it doesn't matter, but I'm proud of you."
Damian was stunned silent. It was one thing to see the old video records of the Tower, and another one entirely to experience the charismatic side of the former leader of the Titans first-hand. Was this what Damian lacked as a leader? He couldn't sense a speckle of dishonesty in Tim. They were alone, so there was no reason to put on a show and though Red Robin was a natural liar, Tim Drake was not. In fact, he didn't lie if he couldn't be bothered at all. So that left Damian with what he'd to assume was only the truth.
He was mortified to discover that his ears felt hot, but was too proud to look away. Tim seemed a bit flustered too, fumbling with the sketchbook before handing it back to Damian. "Keep it," the boy blurted out, surprising them both. The words were unexpected, but not wrong; Damian could feel it in his bones.
Tim wished he could say the same, but he wouldn't allow himself that until every reasonable doubt was off the table. The air grew a tad heavier; more than a sketchbook, it was starting to feel like they were defusing a bomb. "Um, are you sure?"
Damian scowled, but didn't look like an annoyed gremlin anymore. Now that Tim thought about it, that face was just his default setting; whatever the effect it used to have on him, it was wearing off at last. "If Beast Boy found it so easily, then clearly it's not safe with me."
Tim smiled ruefully at that. Busted. "I think you're blackmailing me with these, so I won't get in the way of his impending death."
"Maybe," Damian smirked, devilish so. It was sort of nice to be on the receiving end for once. Tim stood up a little easier than the times before and offered the boy a refill. Damian handed him the cup without question and just like that, the menace hovering over their heads quietly withdrew from the room.
A few weeks later, after Damian went back to the Tower, the soft click of something unlocking made him jump out of the bed. A couple of boxes where piled up next to the door, full of Tim's belongings that the Titans didn't dare to give away; there was a desk with the basic supplies, a suitcase half unpacked and a secret compartment lodged inside the closet wall.
Damian slid the door open and quickly pushed his clothes aside, still wary of the unexpected sound. He took the cubicle out of the wall and found inside a small black box. His instincts kept nudging him, demanding that he called the rest of the Titans immediately, but a familiar voice inside his head talked him out of it. Damian turned on the desk lamp before opening the box. Inside there were photographs, some of them already turning yellow at the corners; a clue to how long it's been since the last time someone had taken them out. He looked at them one by one.
An unmade bed, messy blue sheets; papers surrounded by worn pencils and rubber waste; a wrinkled red hoodie forgotten on a chair, and a cat sleeping underneath; raindrops on a windowpane, then a bird flying off in the distance. Damian recognized his room right away, but the meaning was lost on him until he reached the last photo and realized there was something written on the back.
All the things you lived in
and though I didn't see,
I'm glad that you lived.
Damian swallowed hard, eyes pricking with tears. He didn't know why, they just did. It was childish of him to cry, yet he allowed himself this moment of weakness. These pictures were taken after his death, the date matched with the one of his funeral; Tim had purposely gone looking for whatever remained of Damian and taken it for himself. They would never be bonded by blood, but perhaps stronger ties were forged in the dark without any of them noticing. The thought made Damian feel a lot less lonely. Tim Drake accepted him— truly, finally— and Damian had so hoped he'd grown out of that waiting game, but he didn't.
His phone beeped with a new message on his nightstand. He took one, two, three deep breaths to collect himself and then wiped his eyes on his sleeve before picking it up.
Have I convinced you to spare the life of Beast Boy yet?
[T. Drake, 01:23 a.m.]
Damian snorted, started typing. His thumb hovered over the wrong letter, making him hesitate for a second. He looked up, staring at nothing, and then tried the words out. "Timothy... Tim."
The name rolled off his tongue without effort. Mind you, it was still a silly name, but it had a pleasant ring to Damian's ears now. It contained a stack of polaroid pictures, two sugars in his tea, a dimple on the right cheek— I'm proud of you, I'm glad that you lived. Damian put the photos back inside and closed the box, leaving the one with the writing out. With no need to justify himself, he decided that his pillowcase was the safest place for it.
Damian pressed send before covering himself with the sheet. Nice try was all it said, but he hoped that Tim would know how to read between the lines and find what he really meant to say in those empty spaces. Perhaps he could even tell him about Wally tomorrow, ask him one or two things about the hardships that came with being the leader of this team. If there was anyone who would listen, that'd be Tim.
(After all, wasn't that what big brothers did?)
• References
1. Alfred's part has literal transcriptions from the story arc named Contagion (1996). A plague-like disease called "The Clench" is sent to Gotham City by the Order of St. Dumas and nearly takes Robin's life. Gotham Knights #42 brought this back when Alfred unexpectedly falls ill to the Clench after it was supposedly eradicated and of course, since Alfred was the only one who stayed by Robin's side 24/7 when he was sick, Tim's quick to take the blame. Contagion ran through every Batman Family series in 1996, but Gotham Knights #42 (20 Days Less One) is a lovely issue. I totally recommend it, you don't even need to read Contagion first.
2. The whole spleen thing comes from the good ol' Red Robin series, issues #4 and #5. Long story short, it happened while Tim was looking for evidence that Bruce was not dead, just lost in time (yeah, I know) and no one ever ever ever mentioned this again, so it was up to the fandom to show that hell yeah, DC should have worried about this just a tiny bit more.
3. Do you really think I could replace you? comes from one of my favorite panels, taken straight out of Robin (1993), issue #74. The context was far less dramatic: Tim was about to move into a private school (Brentwood Academy) and was worried it'd affect his night life as Robin. So he asked Bruce if he'd fire him, which got him that answer and basically, Bruce let Tim borrow Alfred as his personal valet for the rest of the semester.
4. Teen Titans Shanenigans 2K16. (New) Wally West is convinced by Deathstroke to help him save his son during The Lazarus Contract arc story, which leads to a clash with Damian, who ends up firing him from the team (Teen Titans Annual 1). But heavy is the head that wears the crown; though Damian won't admit it, he's not sure he made the right call, especially when the remaining Titans— Beast Boy, I only mean Beast Boy really— are not too keen on following his lead anymore.